March Rains, Ossuary, New York Poem by David Kowalczyk

The cold tears of ghosts
fall upon the garbage-strewn
alleys of Ossuary while
gaunt die-casters stumble through
the furious damp morning.


Last month, Rigidized Metals bolted
its doors. Five hundred lives suddenly
became irrelevant. Anaconda Brass
went bankrupt, leaving unpaid bills and
children's dreams kicked and scattered
like empty beer cans in the gutters
of Little Poland.


Today, thick plywood covers Kujawski
Die Casting's windows. Men now jobless
huddle in packs outside the factory.


Their hearts are rags.
They stink of fear.


Their fists clutch dented
steel lunchpails as they gaze with
cavernous eyes at the twin brown
smokestacks, now and forever
shorn of their billowing grey clouds.